


An Angel of God

by msdistress



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Battlestar Galactica Fusion, F/M, Grief, Hallucinations, M/M, Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mourning, Prompt Fic, Supernatural Elements, WIP, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 11:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msdistress/pseuds/msdistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“John asked for a miracle. He got it, only it's far worse than he ever could have imagined.”</p><p>After Reichenbach, John is haunted by Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Epiphanies

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a genius [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/16422.html?thread=94627622#t94627622) at bbc kinkmeme which asked for a Battlestar Galactica fusion in which John hallucinates Sherlock after Reichenbach. It snowballed from there.
> 
> This should be accessible even if you're not familiar with BSG. 
> 
> Thanks to my lovely beta alltoseek for comma wrangling and feedback. All mistakes/errors in the text are mine, not hers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living with the hallucination is better in some respects than living with the real thing. It means uninterrupted sleep with no violin concertos at three a.m., no gunfire, noxious gases, mysterious explosions or body parts in the fridge. On the other hand, it's a lot worse.

London, UK:

  


John comes home from the surgery three weeks after the funeral and finds Sherlock in the middle of an experiment in the kitchen. He's barefoot, wearing his blue dressing gown, a ratty t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, protective goggles on his forehead and his hair looks like a particularly ambitious albeit deranged bird's nest. More than anything else the kitchen table resembles a meth lab, Sherlock's experiments having spilled over all available surfaces. He glances at John before returning his attention to the slides, the bluish light from the microscope turning his eyes colourless, like water. 

”Ah, John, just in time. Hand me the rest of the slides, will you? They are on the counter behind you.”

For a split second John feels the terrible burden of grief lifting from his heart. He wants to hug Sherlock, to grab him and to hear the ridiculously brilliant explanation of how Sherlock managed to fool everyone into believing he was dead. Then he remembers the fall, how Sherlock's coat flapped in the wind, how his hands flailed, the terrible sound of bone and flesh hitting the pavement. He remembers running towards the crowd gathering around the still broken figure on the ground, the smell of blood, how he for a moment felt a slight flutter of pulse on Sherlock's wrist before it was gone. 

John remembers how before the funeral Molly came to collect the remaining body parts in the fridge and took the microscope Sherlock had ”liberated” from St. Barts with her. Before leaving she hugged him and told him to call any time he needed anything, if he wanted to talk. He remembers how a week ago he and Mrs. Hudson threw out all the remaining experiments, how they cleaned and carefully packed all the lab equipment in boxes before donating them to a nearby school.

John remembers the funeral, the curious onlookers, the photographers outside the church; Mycroft tight-lipped, a lock of hair out of place, both sure signs of extreme distress for a Holmes. He remembers meeting Mummy Holmes _(”Please, call me Violet”),_ her tired blue eyes that looked so much like her son's who was now lying in the coffin; how she held his hand while telling him how proud she was that Sherlock had made a friend. He remembers how Mrs. Hudson cried; how Greg's eyes were puffy, his face grey. He remembers the faces of clients and friends and acquaintances and the flashes continuously going off in the background. He remembers standing by the grave with his back stiff, unable to cry, unable to grieve. Sherlock may be dead but John refuses to turn his death into a performance for the public, for the entertainment of others.

John _remembers._

He turns and walks out of the flat. Sherlock doesn't follow.

\---

During the following months Sherlock appears with no discernible pattern. Sometimes he's away for a month, sometimes he shows up three times a day. John steadfastly ignores him in the hopes that his subconscious will take the hint and stop manifesting Sherlock in their flat. It's not working, but then again, nothing is, so John tries to lead as normal life as possible. He works, sees his mates, has one night stands (but never brings them home, not when Sherlock might be there), writes his personal blog (not the old one with Sherlock and the cases but a new one which can be summarised with the sentence _Nothing ever happens to me_ ) and visits Ella once a week. John doesn't mention seeing Sherlock to her. She probably suspects something, but she's not pushing it, and apparently having a PTSD and hallucinating your dead best friend on a regular basis is fine as long as you are not a danger to yourself or others, which John isn't. He's just grieving, and at some point the hallucinations will go away. 

  


Yes, most definitely. 

All right, almost certainly. 

Fine. Perhaps. 

_Shit._

  


\---

Living with the hallucination is better in some respects than living with the real thing. It means uninterrupted sleep with no violin concertos at three a.m., no gunfire, noxious gases, mysterious explosions or body parts in the fridge (and John is glad that even though he's obviously a nutter, he's not cracked enough to miss _that_ ). On the other hand, it's a lot worse. Logically John knows that Sherlock is dead, but apparently his subconscious is having trouble admitting to it. Of course, Sherlock is not helping at all, what with experimenting in the kitchen, sulking on the sofa, acerbically commenting on the telly, or just sitting in his chair and plain observing John. It is unnerving and heartbreaking because it's so familiar, and more than once John has to stop himself because he wants to share something with Sherlock, wants to comment on something and he _can't_ , because despite rummaging in the kitchen doing god knows what, _Sherlock is dead_.

John toys with the idea of moving out, but decides against it. First of all, Sherlock only manifests at the flat, and John is afraid that if he leaves, Sherlock will escalate and John simply isn't ready for a running commentary from his dead flatmate at every moment of his waking life. Second, Sherlock's death attracted all kinds of creeps, and if he left, they'd be pestering Mrs. Hudson even more than they do now. He just can't do that to her. And last, he hates the idea of somebody else living in their flat. Baker Street is his home. It's the last connection to Sherlock he has. He's not ready to sever that, not yet, so he stays and Sherlock stays with him. It's fine, mostly. They have reached an agreement, as much as an agreement can be reached between two people who do not speak to each other. John pretends that Sherlock isn't there and Sherlock doesn't speak to him directly.

It all works out, until it doesn't.

\---

Six months after the funeral John comes back from the pub drunk, far more pissed than he intended to be. His face is numb and he fumbles with the lock because after the seventh pint his fingers decided to stop co-operating. When he finally manages to open the door, he kicks off his shoes and takes off his jacket in the dark before turning on the light. The first thing he sees is Sherlock lying on the sofa with his eyes closed, hands folded under his chin like those knight effigy thingies on medieval tombs. The familiar sight sends a stab of pain straight through John, and suddenly it's just _too much_ and the words are out of his mouth before he has a chance to stop them. 

“Christ, Sherlock, why do you do this? You... You are dead, fine. I can accept that. I know that. I asked you to come back, I did, but not like this, I didn't mean like this." He takes a deep breath, rubbing his face with his hand, before fixing his eyes again on Sherlock. "I can't do this anymore. I can't live, I can't move on, not when you are here but not real. So. I'm begging you. Please. Just. Just go, okay? Please. _Please.”_

“And why do you assume this has anything to do with you?” Sherlock retorts, like it was John who had hurt his feelings and not the other way round. It's insane because John knows that Sherlock is dead, that he's talking to a hallucination, but he doesn't care, he cannot care because _it is Sherlock_ , and John misses him so much it hurts to breathe and then suddenly his vision is blurry and he just can't.

There's a flurry of movement and Sherlock is standing too close to him, in John's personal space and it's far too familiar and painful and the tears start falling in earnest and John would be ashamed, only he's very drunk and _it's a bloody hallucination_ , so it's not like anybody can actually see him bawling like a baby, and anyway, he's _entitled_ because _his best friend is dead_ , dead and gone and never coming back, only that is not quite true now, is it? And that _really_ is the heart of the problem right there.

And then Sherlock is clumsily patting John's shoulder like he's an alien from another world and has only learned human interaction via correspondence or maybe a diagram, and it's very much possible that is exactly what he did, because _it is Sherlock_ and he doesn't do normal human emotions because emotions are _boring_ , and his facial expression is a mixture of horror and constipation which could be translated into concern, only it's probably just horror because John is having _feelings_ , and John practically tackles Sherlock onto the sofa and holds on to him and holds him and holds him and cries and cries and cries into that stupid purple shirt he _knows_ is even now hanging in the closet in Sherlock's room. 

And when John finally calms a little he realises that maybe Sherlock has a small inkling of how to interact with people after all, or maybe he just watched a documentary and didn't delete it, because they are sprawled on the sofa and Sherlock has wrapped his arms around John and he's petting John's back and hair and is making shushing noises at him and talking in a low voice but not really making much sense at all. “John, John, John, please, stop crying, stop crying, please, please, _please_. I never meant to hurt you. There is something I need to do and I thought it would be neat, _symmetrical_ , to come back as _him_ , but obviously I wasn't thinking because you can't even look at me and I need you. And now it's too late to change it because it's all in motion, and I can't take it back and I can't go back until this is all done and I'm so, so, _sorry_.”

“You're not Sherlock,” John croaks, his face still mashed in the expensive imaginary shirt that has now tears and snot all over it, and tries to laugh. It comes out as miserable little chuckle, but it is still better than crying, so John counts it as a win. “Sherlock never apologised for anything.”

”And if I told you that I'm an angel of God sent here to protect you, to guide you and to love you, would you believe me?” Sherlock rumbles, sounding relieved that the worst of John's emotional breakdown might be over.

”That's ridiculous. I don't even believe in God. Christ, _Sherlock_ didn't believe in gods.” John still doesn't feel like looking up, or moving, or letting go, or doing anything but staying here for the rest of his life, so he doesn't, but instead just snuggles down to a more comfortable position. 

“I suppose we could settle with a hallucination, then, if that made this easier for you.” One of Sherlock's big hands is still soothing John, while the other one reaches for something on the floor. It comes back up with the blanket that fell when John launched himself at Sherlock. Sherlock struggles with it for a moment, but then manages to drape it over both of them one-handedly. 

“Sleep now. You are tired and drunk and that emotional outburst of yours must have been draining.” 

“I'm still mad at you, you know,” John yawns “for dying."

“I know. Close your eyes.” The hands make soothing motions on his back. It is all very relaxing.

“G'dnight, S'lock.” John mumbles into the snot-covered shirt.

The last thing he hears before falling asleep are the gentle reverberations of a quiet “Goodnight, John.”

\---

John wakes up on the sofa facedown with a painful crick in his neck. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. There are traces of tears on his face, he is fully dressed in yesterday's clothes, and he has a massive hangover. At some point in the night he must have been running hot since the blanket is heaped on the floor next to the sofa. His head hurts, his mouth tastes like a small rodent made a nest in it and he feels better than he has felt for months. 

He gets up, stretching his aching shoulder and his neck, and makes tea.


	2. Someone To Watch Over Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a plan. Unfortunately, it blows up in his face... quite literally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my lovely beta alltoseek for comma wrangling and feedback. All mistakes/errors in the text are mine, not hers.
> 
> I have nothing against Russia or the Russians, it's Sherlock who is a cranky bastard. :)

Republic of Karelia, Russia.  
February the 2nd.  
1 a.m. local time

  


Russia is an unmitigated disaster.

From the moment the explosives go off prematurely, everything goes to hell. He is too close to the blast, taking shrapnel into his arm and his side. The wounds are not very deep, but they are irritating nevertheless. What is even more annoying is the fact that the explosion kills the men he intended only to distract and/or stun, and the whole building goes up in flames, destroying the information Sherlock intended to retrieve. Either the explosives were more potent than they were meant to be _(and he_ knew _he should have made his own)_ or... Yes, the blast pattern confirms it. There were gas tanks on the opposite side of the wall. The intel he got from one of Mycroft's contacts was bad. Or, not accurate enough. That's what you get when you have to work with criminals and other _amateurs_. 

No matter how influential Mycroft is in the US and in the EU, the Russians are adamantly opposed to his meddling, a stance Sherlock wholeheartedly applauds in general and condemns to the lowest hell in this specific instance. Consequently, Sherlock's current mission has not been sanctioned by the Russian officials, and as a result his resources are limited when it comes to manpower, gear, and information. Mycroft provided him with ample funds and a list of contacts, of course, but he has to procure whatever he needs from freelancers, criminals, and the worst of all, _civilians_. What is even worse is that if the local authorities caught him, he'd be deported as a British spy, but not before they had paraded him in front of the international media. John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would be dead before the wheels of his plane left the Russian soil. 

Luckily, there is no danger of being caught, not this time. The closest town (the name _irrelevant,_ population _irrelevant,_ one safe house, one contact vetted and vouched for by Mycroft himself) is over seven miles away and the terrain blocks the light from the burning house. It could be days before anyone notices anything is wrong here, and by that time Sherlock will be long gone. As he heads towards his car, he is already making plans for tracking down the next cell. His most promising leads are in Istanbul, and since the leaders of the Russian cell are all either dead or detained, he can finally get out of this godforsaken country. It is not a moment too soon.

\---

The car fails to start.

The battery is dead from the cold, no matter what Sherlock tries. _Good god, is there anything in this country that works as it should?_ Affronted, he fishes his phone out the pocket of his anorak. He needs to call his contact in the town to arrange for her to come and pick him up, but the smartphone was clearly designed for a far more pleasant climate. It's impossible to operate with the gloves on. He sheds them in a huff, only to realise that the phone doesn't find any networks at all. There is no service. 

Sherlock heroically resists the urge to throw the offending device against the nearest hard surface and instead concentrates on re-evaluating the situation. No car, no working mobile. The cars of the _Pakhan_ and his men were in the garage which also caught fire, so they are not an option, either. He still has his gun and he knows where the closest town is. Now it's just a matter of getting there. It is freezing, below -20 degrees, but he is wearing warm clothing, although his vest is wet from blood and not retaining warmth. The cut in his side is still bleeding, and the John-part of his brain tells him that he needs to take care of both of these things now, so he rummages in the car until he finds the first aid kit and then proceeds to strip down to his torso. The air against his skin is shockingly cold as he assesses the damage to his upper body _(nothing serious, only scratches)_. His bandages are not as neat as John's, but they are serviceable. By the time he has discarded the bloody vest on the floor and put on the rest of his clothing, he is shivering. _It's only transport,_ he reminds himself. 

The car contains nothing else useful, but it makes a very satisfying wooshing sound when it ignites after he has doused the insides with petrol. He enjoys the warmth for a moment before adjusting his gloves and his scarf, tucking down his beanie and setting out towards the town. 

 

\---

The night is beautiful. Aurora Borealis _(something to do with the sun? John would know.)_ and the stars are reflected by the snow and provide enough light for him to see where he is going. The dark trees surrounding the road are eerily quiet, and the only sounds in the world are his breathing, the quiet swishing of the fabric of his clothes and his footsteps. Surrounded by the cold, the darkness and the silence, Sherlock feels very, very alone, as if he were the last man on Earth. For a moment he wishes that John was here. John belongs with Sherlock, behind his right shoulder, but Sherlock hasn't seen him for the last six months _(six months, seventeen days and twenty hours)_ , not since that day at the cemetery. John doesn't know Sherlock is alive, that he survived the fall, nor should he. If Sherlock fails in his task, if he dies, he will simply disappear. John won't ever know that Sherlock survived, that he gave up his life to save him. He will mourn him for a time and then move on. Sherlock knows that saving his friends from additional worry and grief (not to mention _snipers_ ) is rational. It is very possible that it is even the _moral_ choice. He is being considerate, and if he is to believe the experts _(John),_ the thought in itself should make him feel better. It doesn't.

_“Maudlin. Useless. Foolish.”_ he tells himself. _“Stop being sentimental. Walk.”_

He walks.

\---

It really is very cold. 

Even though he is moving, even though he's warmly dressed, he can't seem to get warm. He flexes his fingers and his toes, but nothing helps. 

To distract himself Sherlock keeps thinking of the things he could talk with John, if John were here. He could ask something about the stars, or the Northern Lights, just to hear John's explanation. He would delete it, of course, but it would cheer John up, to be able to explain something to Sherlock, something he considers elementary and Sherlock extraneous. Or maybe they could talk about the cases, the Moriarty case, or... No. Not the Moriarty case. No. They could plan what they are going to do when they get back to London. The city is like a living organism, with new pathways always opening and old ones closing, so when he gets back, Sherlock will want to reacquaint himself with the backalleys and rooftops of London, to discover new shortcuts, to see which are still there and which have been closed off. John would want to join him, of course, and afterwards, after a productive day of running around (and maybe even chasing some criminals if they were very lucky) they could go to Angelo's and order a hearty meal (because John likes food and he likes seeing Sherlock eat). Maybe they could order a bottle of wine and share it and Sherlock would share the inferences he'd made about the other patrons and John would smile and laugh and tell him that he is brilliant.

Yes. That is a good plan. They will do that when they get back.

\---

_I could die here._ The thought comes to his head unbidden as he stumbles and falls for the third _(fifth?)_ time. His feet are numb and he's shivering violently. He tells it to John as well. 

“J-John, I'm exhib-biting s-symptoms of mo-moderate hypoth-thermia. I n-need to get s-somewhere warm s-soon.” 

John doesn't answer. Sherlock didn't really expect him to, but it still feels like a rejection. He rests for a moment before clumsily getting up. His hands and feet ache. 

\---

Sherlock is on the ground again. Apparently he must have stumbled, but he doesn't really remember doing that. He is very tired, but the shivering has stopped. That means something significant, he just cannot remember what it is. Annoying. 

His eyes drift closed and then John is shaking him and yelling at him and sounding angry and concerned and _why is he in such a state again? It's ridiculous._ Sherlock decides to tell him exactly that.

“Sto' fretting, John, m'fine.” 

_“No, Sherlock, you really are not. Get up.”_

“Oh, shu' up. M'ressing.”

_“No. Up. Right now. The town isn't far. You're almost there. Get up. Move.”_

“Yeah, y'fine. Jussa few minu'es.” 

_“No. Sherlock. Sherlock!”_

And then John is bodily lifting Sherlock, which should be surprising, but isn't, since Sherlock knows that John is stronger than he looks. When he has managed to drag Sherlock into a vertical position (more or less, since John is still the one holding the most of his weight up), John slaps him. Hard. It hurts. Sherlock blinks at him in confusion.

“John. Why did you hit me?”

_“You need to stay awake. You can sleep when we get to the safe house, but not before. This is very important. Do you understand me, Sherlock Holmes?“_

“Yes, John.” John's brows furrow in the way that predicts trouble, so Sherlock obediently recites: “Important. Sleep at the house, not before. Do not delete.”

_“Yes, good. Come on. Let's go.”_

\---

Sherlock's feet are still clumsy so he keeps on leaning on John who holds up most of his weight. Sherlock would rather that they stopped for a moment, but there is no arguing with John when he is in one of his moods, so they soldier on. While they stumble towards whatever destination John has in mind, John talks to him and prods him until he answers.

_“Christ, Sherlock. When was the last time you ate? Or slept?”_

“Um. Not sure.” There's a pause when Sherlock tries to think. Then he attempts: “The day before yesterday?”

_“Jesus. You're the dumbest genius I've ever met.”_

That requires a response. It takes embarrassingly long before he can formulate one. “Not important. Transport.”

_“Did it ever occur to you that that 'transport' of yours might need, I don't know, fuel? Rest? Maintenance?”_

“Irrelevant.” He tries for loftiness. He almost manages it. Almost.

_“Yeah, well, you almost got yourself killed by exposure. I'd call that relevant.”_

\---

London looks strange. There is snow everywhere, a lot of snow, far more than is normal for the UK, and the streetlights are not working. The houses look strange as well, they are small and quite shabby and... foreign. Sherlock can't quite concentrate on it as John herds and drags and carries and pesters him on. They get to a small house that looks exactly like all the others and John props him up against the wall and hammers on the door. Sherlock closes his eyes just for a moment, and the next thing he knows a strange woman is dragging him inside. She's speaking but Sherlock can't concentrate on what she's saying and then somehow there's a bed and suddenly he's on it and John says _“You did good. Sleep now.”_ and Sherlock does.

\---

When he wakes up much, much later, he is still on the bed, naked, but swaddled in a warm duvet. His cuts have been rebandaged _(Not by John);_ there's an IV drip in his arm and hot water bottles in both of his armpits and his groin. He's groggy; his fingers, his toes and his face are itching _(frostbite);_ and he's thirsty _(dehydration, a symptom of hypothermia)_. There's a steaming mug of tea on the bedside table. _(John?)_ Sherlock reaches for it, mindful of the needle in his arm. It is Russian tea, very strong, sweetened with raspberry jam. _(Not John.)_

He sighs and drinks it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Russians sometimes sweeten their tea with jam.
> 
> If you're interested in how hypothermia affects people, you might be interested in [this article](http://www.outsideonline.com/outdoor-adventure/As-Freezing-Persons-Recollect-the-Snow--First-Chill--Then-Stupor--Then-the-Letting-Go.html?page=all) at outsideonline.com.


End file.
